


East Wind

by Satine



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Not Really Character Death, Poor John, Possessive Sherlock, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-28 21:24:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2747621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Satine/pseuds/Satine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is willing to do anything in order to stay in London and have John to himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	East Wind

"John, there's something I should say... I've meant to say; I've always meant and never have. Since it's unlikely we'll ever meet again, I might as well say it now." There was clear hesitation in Sherlock's words, which scared John slightly—this near speechless man in front of him didn't seem Sherlock "know-it-all" Holmes at all. The consultant detective finally looked his friend in the eyes, and there they were—those enigmatic eyes that never seized to amaze John. They displayed such uncertainty that he had to resist the urge to pull Sherlock into a hug—they didn't do hugs and they wouldn't start to now, would they? Sherlock took a deep breath, and the following words were said as fast as he could. "I have feelings for you, John. Feelings which are unacceptable to have for friends."

John was at a loss of words, staring at the other man. A small twitch of his eyebrows showed Sherlock that John was putting the puzzle pieces together, so he decided to keep talking. "I know it's wrong, I know I shouldn't tell you this—we both would be better off denying it as we always did—, but I'm selfish and I needed to take this burden out of my shoulders before leaving."

John licked his lips, head held low in order to hide his face from Sherlock's gaze. "Selfish? Yeah, you're definitely selfish." His voice sounded restrained. "Why didn't you tell me this before?"

"Because I was taught caring is not an advantage. Because I was blind and failed to observe what was in front of me the whole time." Sherlock answered quietly, feeling ashamed of his mistake. "But that's not the point."

"I agree. The point— _your_ point—is that you've just fucked up my relationship with Mary." John spat the words, glancing Sherlock with a mix of frustration and bitterness. "I mean it—how do you expect me to go back to my wife after hearing this?" He closed his hands in fists.

"Actually that's _only_ the aftermath." Sherlock corrected. He was acting as his normal self again—pointing out people's flaws and speaking in his calculated manner—; his previous behaviour had left no traces. "Oxytocin, dopamine—you know these, don't you, John? Chemistry doesn't lie." The detective got a surprised look from his friend. "I've taken your pulse so many times I lost count. The point is..." He stared deep into John's blue eyes. "Your heartbeat is always fast whenever I'm around you."

"I've always known that." The short man sounded defeated. "Why did you have to tell me this right now? God, I hate you."

"No, you don't." Sherlock retorted with a smirk.

"And that's why I hate myself so much." John sighed, but ended up chuckling anyway.

Sherlock took off his right glove while analyzing John's face. "I want to remember you like this." He held out his bare hand. "To the very best of times, John."

A handshake, then? Yes, they didn't do hugs for sure—even now. John could sense Sherlock's gaze at him when he slipped his fingers over the detective's wrist. Under his friend's warm and pale skin, John couldn't help noticing the rush of blood flow beneath his fingertips—it was so fast, so _intense_.

 _Chemistry doesn't lie_.

Sherlock had told the truth.

John opened his mouth to say something—he _had_ to say something, things couldn't end like this—, but the words wouldn't come out. And then it was too late: a stoned-face Sherlock was boarding the plane, as if he didn't give a fuck he would never see his dear London again.

All of a sudden everything changed: it looked like Moriarty had come back from the dead, and Mycroft was making a phone call, and Mary was asking questions, and John was confused, and he couldn't keep up with the information flow. Ah, and Sherlock's aeroplane was landing a few metres by their side.

"Mrs. and Dr. Watson, would you please get in the car? Although I know this is all very confusing for both of you, I'm afraid I must discuss a personal matter with my brother." Mycroft didn't sound apologetic for kicking them out like rubbish.

" _Personal_ matter?" John raised an eyebrow, having finally pulled himself together. "I'm sorry, but I believe when it comes to Moriarty, this so-called matter concerns all of us."

"John, please, don't." Mary touched his left arm in a soothing way, intending to hold her husband back. "Let them sort themselves out. Sherlock will probably talk to you later." John resigned, breaking eye contact with Mycroft—who looked pleased with the woman's attitude. John hated turning his back to the plane, and this didn't go unnoticed by Mary. "Worrying won't do you any good." She said, while sitting on the back seat. When John did the same, she held his right hand in hers. "You know Sherlock will tell you everything afterwards."

John sighed. "We shall see that."

 

*  *  *

 

"No, no, no, no-no-no..."

John was woken up by desperate screams. At first his vision was cloudy due to sleep, but soon he could easily make out a huge red stain on the bed sheets. And endless tears spilling from Mary's green eyes.

"No, please, no." This time the pleas were his. He hugged Mary hard, and kissed her forehead, trying to calm her down. "I'll call the hospital."

Mary whimpered. "It's no use... She's gone, John."

 

*  *  *

 

John found Mary inside the baby's room, sitting on the floor, with boxes full of infant products by her side. She didn't give him a glance, even though she knew he was watching her.

Mary only spoke to him after John gathered enough courage to cross the threshold. "We should give these to charity. What do you think?"

"Suit yourself." He regretted his answer right after noticing how sharp it had sounded to his ears, but Mary didn't seem to mind, and continued to pack things. "You know, you don't have to get back to work now, Mary."

"John, please don't tell me that." Mary stopped what she was doing, and finally looked her husband in the eye. "It's been a month. I don't want to spend my time grieving anymore. I've done it enough, and it's no use." Her hand landed on one of John's shoulders, and she gave him a reassuring squeeze. "Work will help me pull myself together."

"I wanted to do it _myself_." John confessed in a low voice.

"And you've been doing it. John, without your support I would have gone mad." Mary leaned in and gave him a quick peck. "But the truth is... I was ready for it. Let's be honest: I'm forty. This was to be expected."

"You helped me too. Thank you." John kissed her cheek.

"Maybe you should call Sherlock. I mean, it would be better for you to get back to _your stuff_ —you know, get back to the clinic and all that jazz." Mary said quietly as she led him out of the baby's room. She kept on talking, but John couldn't understand the words; all he could think about was Sherlock bleeding out on the floor—due to _Mary_ 's doing.

This thought hadn't crossed John's mind since Mary's miscarriage, but now that it seemed they were on the same page, it was as if his mind had tucked everything about the baby away, and decided to focus on other matters—as Mary's recovery, Sherlock's close call, Moriarty's return and Sherlock's... Sherlock's _confession_. The first subject was going pretty well, if Mary's being honest—she would get back to work in a few days—, but he felt a little uneasy letting her go—though she proved she could take care of herself by shooting his best friend. John tried to avoid the second problem by all means, but he still caught himself looking at his wife and thinking "This woman tried to kill Sherlock." He got only one thing straight: God, forgiveness is _so hard_.

The last two matters (he hoped) a text message could do.

 

*  *  *

 

A text message couldn't do.

"Sherlock hasn't answered me yet." John frowned at his mobile's screen.

"Really?" Mary looked genuinely surprised. "I thought he'd be over the moon after your duty as my crying shoulder had ended."

John rolled his eyes at Mary's blasé phrasing, lying by her side on their bed. "Well, I've been away for a month, he's probably keeping me in the dark as some kind of punishment." He lied: he knew exactly why Sherlock was avoiding him—and he didn't blame the detective for that. Sherlock had stripped his feelings bare to John just because it was supposed to be their last meeting. But of course fate had other plans.

"Only Sherlock would be able to make a husband helping his wife seem the wrong thing to do." There was no humour in Mary's laugh.

"Do you know anything about what's happening?" John asked honestly.

"Why would I know?" Mary was suddenly on the defensive.

John didn't dare to answer this, and decided to drop the subject—it would be better to leave it before it turned into a domestic. "Good night."

"Good night." Mary answered, turning out the room's lights. "I love you." She whispered quietly as she got comfortable on bed.

John didn't say anything back.

 

*  *  *

 

John's fist hovered over the wood, indecision clear in his moves as he stared at those golden characters— _221B_.

 _Don't be such a sissy and knock on the door_ , he screamed to himself mentally. He had to do this _now_ , after all, Sherlock was out there trying to defeat his nemesis, and John needed to prevent Sherlock from doing careless things—such as faking his own death. Of course John would be lying if he pointed this as the _only_ reason he was so reluctant to do something as simple as knocking on the door—the problem was beyond that: what should you do after a friend of yours claims to be in love with you? At least John had understood this from Sherlock's words—after all, what feeling is forbidden between friends? He hoped Sherlock had meant this, otherwise he would feel too stupid for his own good.

Suddenly his mind was filled with Sherlock jumping from the rooftop, Sherlock stressed due to Moriarty's threats, Sherlock yelling at John, telling him everything was a huge lie, _can't you see_? Oh, wait, you _do_ see, you don't _observe_.

And John reminded—John _observed_. It was there all the time, in front of his eyes, in plain sight, and he never noticed.

_It was always you. John Watson, you keep me right._

How could he be so blind?

 _Look at us both_ , Irene Adler's voice echoed through his mind as a whisper, but the truth hidden in between these words was so loud it sounded as a shout.

Holy _fuck_ , this looked like a crappy soap opera's plot: the two friends who have always loved each other but noticed it too late to have a happy ending.

He couldn't do this. He needed to, but he simply couldn't. John would go against every moral principle he had on friendship—never turn your back to your friend—, but, fuck, he couldn't. He was weak and if he tried to do anything, he would do some shit, screw up everything and end up fucked—and probably hurt both Mary and Sherlock along this whole process.

"How long do you plan to stand here staring at the door?" Of course Sherlock would show up, _of course_ —because this showed how _good_ John's luck was.

John opened his mouth to speak, but he couldn't find the right words. He licked his lips instead, buying himself some time. _Shall I throw everything in the wind and keep talking to Sherlock?_ , he asked himself.

 _Fuck yeah_. "Where are you going?"

"Nowhere." Sherlock stepped back into the building, and John followed him through the hall to the stairs. Mrs. Hudson saw you and told me I should talk to you." Even though he couldn't see the detective's face, John knew he had rolled his eyes to the elderly woman's endless worry. "What brings you here?" He asked as he got into the flat.

"Are you really going to play dumb? It doesn't suit you, you know." John raised an eyebrow skeptically.

"Though I dislike admitting, it was a sincere question. I don't know for _which_ reason you came here." Sherlock stood at the centre of the sitting room, eyeing John with interest.

"Moriarty, he's the reason I'm here. Have you got any news on that?" John looked around, trying to see on the walls any prove that Sherlock was working on the case—where were the papers and pictures and thousands of experiments?

"I still don't know how could someone survive to a headshot, if it's that what you're asking."

"Is Mary in danger?" John almost whispered the question. He could swear he saw a glimpse of pain in Sherlock's eyes.

The detective turned his back to the short man. "Only if she's lying to you."

This was enough to piss John off. "You know something, so quit that. Stop being such a prick and tell me, bloody hell!" He closed his hands in fists, and remembered how satisfied he had felt after punching Sherlock when he came from the dead. "First you told me that nonsense, then I lost my _daughter_ and had to take care of Mary, and now you come to me with this bullshit?"

Sherlock didn't lose his cool, which was unexpected. "What you wanted me to say? Hello, John! How are you doing? Oh, by the way, your wife is our number one suspect!" His voice practically dripped sarcasm.

"What the fuck?" John repressed his rage right away. "Repeat that. What did you say?"

"You heard me." Sherlock sat on a chair, as if he was exhausted by the conversation. "Mycroft and I believe Mary is exchanging letters with Moriarty."

"What the fuck?" John's brain wasn't able to process the information. He noticed vaguely that he had sat on the floor during some moment. "No, she's not. Where the hell did you get this idea from, Sherlock?"

"The pictures are in the top drawer." He pointed to the desk close to John. When he saw that the man wasn't going to move from his spot on the floor, Sherlock got up to hand John the files.

"How could I not see this?" He questioned himself as he finally saw it with his own eyes.

"She's your wife. To know she was a killer disturbed you alone—you didn't wish to know any more." Sherlock explained, as if he didn't know that was a rhetoric question.

"Out of sight, out of mind." John mumbled, as he gathered strength to get up. "Now you're going to ask me to go home and pretend I don't know anything, aren't you?" He walked towards the door.

"You're..." Sherlock bit his tongue, concluding he shouldn't say such stupid thing.

"I'm what?" John didn't let it pass by.

"You're already leaving." This was supposed to be a question, but the bitter acceptation in Sherlock's voice drowned any interrogative. "I see, you came here only for this." John wondered what he meant by _this_ —Mary's safety? Moriarty? Sherlock saw his thoughtful expression. "That's fine." He assured, and his confident look could fool anyone—except John, who's known him for God knows how long.

"Look, I..." John sighed. How did his life get _that_ screwed up? "I have to go. Mary's waiting for me back home, and I can't. I simply can't." And then John was gone.

Those were few words, but Sherlock got the message—he couldn't compete against a wife.

Yet.

*  *  *

 

She was washing the dishes when the doorbell rang.

"Hello, Mrs. Watson." Pale eyes and an artificial smile greeted her.

"John isn't in; he's at the clinic right now." Mary stared at Sherlock. Something on his face made her put the puzzle pieces together. "...And you are aware of that. So you want to _chat_ with me? Interesting." She mocked.

"Interesting?" He raised an eyebrow.

"It took you long enough to come to me." She stood at the threshold, blocking his way to the sitting room—Mary didn't intend to allow him inside, how cold.

"What makes you think I was supposed to talk to you? Do you feel guilty of anything, Mary?" He searched on her any traces of dread. Nothing.

"I'm a hundred percent clean, and I promised John I'd stay this way. I'm not surprised by your visit, considering how you look at John." Sherlock rolled his eyes at this, but Mary didn't bite the bait. "I'm not a fool, Sherlock, you know. There'll never be anything between you and John, face it. And that's not due to me keeping a collar on him—he's just a too decent man to cheat on his wife after she's lost their baby."

"Mary..." Sherlock's smile held no emotion. "I'm glad you're as honest as ever—and also _wrong_. Anyway, I should go." He gave one step back. "Have a lovely day, Mrs. Watson." Sherlock was gone before Mary had the chance to answer.

 

*  *  *

 

"Dinner's ready." Mary told John when he got home. "How was work?" She finished setting the table as he entered the room.

"The same as always." He answered shortly, and got to his seat to have dinner.

None of them talked. Uncomfortable silence filled the dinner room, but John didn't notice it—he was too busy facing his own dilemma. He didn't know if he helped Sherlock catch Mary and/or Moriarty or if he believed in Mary when she told him she was innocent.

"What's the matter?" Mary asked when she finished eating. "I'm not dumb, John, please, don't try to pretend everything's fine."

"Mary..." John tapped his nose bridge, having trouble finding the right words. "Have you ever worked for Moriarty?" He saw her freeze across the table. "I really didn't read your memory stick, so I have to ask you this. Did you know him? Did he have anything against you?"

"Well..." Mary lowered her eyes. "Everybody's got something against me." She looked him in the eye, looking desperate. "You need to understand, this type of work is... Is dirty, so everyone knows each others' misdeeds."

" _You_ need to understand this: you don't have to do this 'work' anymore, so tell me the truth." John almost begged.

"But I did tell you!" Mary stood suddenly, her face flushed in anger. "I have always told you!"

"Always?" John raised an eyebrow as if challenging her to say otherwise.

"Look, I know I've done many mistakes—I know I've disappointed you in so many ways it makes me want to die, but I would never side with someone as filthy as Moriarty." John had thought Mary would have already started crying by now, but she seemed to be extremely pissed off. "You know what's worst? You've just insulted me in all possible ways, and nobody had ever done that to me." Mary got to the door. "Farewell, John, and good luck—you'll need it."

John didn't understand the last part.

 

*  *  *

 

"Don't ask. Deduce me." Those were John's words when he got into 221B Baker Street. Sherlock lowered his violin for a moment in order to glance at his friend, and then kept on playing. "So? Anything?" John looked at him expectantly.

"When you came back from work earlier today, Mary and all her things were gone from her flat. You had an argument over Moriarty and she got tired of everything." Sherlock frowned.

"What's that look on your face?" John sat on his armchair, as if it was another normal day and his wife hadn't walked out on him. "Obviously something like this would happen, don't you think? I mean, Mary's clearly doing something wrong, and sooner or later I'd find out."

"I don't find _this_ strange." Sherlock gave up on playing, placing his violin on the couch. "What surprises me is how calm you are about everything. You do know your marriage is over, don't you?"

"I can deal with it. Maybe all this is showing me marriage's not my thing. I mean, it's _so_ tiresome, first Mary lied to me, then she shot you, then she lost the baby..." John closed his eyes, leaning the back of his head into his armchair.

"You know what they say... What goes around comes around."

"So you delete stuff like the Solar System, but you keep old sayings?" John smiled.

"Shut up." Sherlock didn't sound mad though. "So... You're free." He whispered.

"Yes, it seems I am." John replied absentmindedly.

"So you're unattached like me. Good."

John opened his eyes—when had he already heard that? _Oh..._

 

*  *  *

 

"Did you know men can achieve 'true orgasms' only through prostate stimulation? It means the euphoria you feel when you rub yourself is nothing compared to what I'm feeling right now." As if to show his point, Sherlock rolled his hips, John's cock sinking deeper inside him.

John didn't remember how he had gotten into this—when did Sherlock straddle him and started to ride John? His life was a complete mess—less than a week ago he was comforting his wife, and now he was single and was having sex with his best friend. The worst was he didn't care about any of this anymore—Mary, Moriarty, screw them. Actually he was too surprised for finding out Sherlock takes it in the arse.

"Should I envy you?" John grinned at what the other man said. He should have predicted Sherlock would be the type who talks during sex.

"See yourself. Want to switch positions?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"No, thanks. Soon I'll have you coming without touching your prick."

"I long to see you do such thing." Sherlock purred against his ear.

"Try me."

 

*  *  *

 

"You're eating." John looked stunned as he stared at Sherlock across the table.

"I'm aware sex is a tiresome exercise, and I _certainly_ need some energy after last night." Sherlock joined John in his giggling.

"God, this is all unbelievable." He sighed, and then took a sip of his tea. "I mean, who could think we would do this kind of thing someday?" When he saw Sherlock stop to think for a moment, John added. "Don't answer that. Too many people suspected there was something between us."

"They suspected correctly. But you'd never take the courage to tell me you love me, wouldn't you, John?" Sherlock had a smug expression on his face.

"Stop being full of yourself, you git. Who told you I love you?" John tried to joke, though he knew Sherlock would see through him.

"Chemistry did. And it also let you know how I feel about you, didn't it? You took my pulse before I boarded the plan. Did you really think I wouldn't notice it?" Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"One can hope." John said, but the tension had already left his shoulders. This was _so_ Sherlock—to turn love confessions into simple talks during breakfast. "What will we do now?"

"You're up for another round?" Sherlock looked at him amazed. "I thought you were still recovering from the head I gave you earlier."

John shook his head. "No, I mean... What about Moriarty? What do you plan to do?"

"There's nothing to do." Sherlock resumed eating, seeming unimpressed. "It was a lie."

John couldn't believe what he'd just heard. "I beg your pardon?" He froze, and the fork on his hand stopped halfway to his mouth.

"Moriarty is dead all right. He shot himself in the head, there's no way he could survive, John." The detective said as if it was the simplest fact in the Universe. Indeed it was.

"No, Sherlock, you didn't." John stood up, threading his fingers through his hair. No, no, no.

"John, sit down. Calm yourself and I'll explain everything for you." He said quietly, unfazed.

"I won't calm down, fuck." John came over to Sherlock and pulled at his nightgown with too much strength, making the taller man stand up. "Spill it out. Now." John spoke word by word, as he always did when he was angry.

Sherlock made John retrieve the hand that held his nightgown, and walked to the sitting room, knowing he would be followed by John. "I had to find a way to stay in London. That MI6 job would obviously be the death of me." Sherlock walked around the room with his hands positioned in his usual mock prayer, while wearing a thoughtful expression. "Moriarty is still feared by the government, and I'm the only one able to outsmart him. I knew they'd ask me to stay here in order to defeat him again, so I planned all this with Mycroft." Sherlock stopped in his tracks. "After all, I'm his brother and he cares about me. But he didn't approve of the plan's second phase." He whispered the last part to himself.

"But you said to me that Moriarty was sending Mary letters. And she was working for him." John leaned into the wall behind him, needing support to keep himself standing. "Bloody hell, Sherlock, what have you done? Don't tell me you..." He trailed off.

"Yes, I did send those letters. I have to admit I was very surprised when she wrote back." He didn't seem to regret anything he had done.

"Wait. Mary's physician told me maybe she had miscarried because she was under too much stress." John regained his balance, heading for where Sherlock stood in the sitting room.

"I'm afraid I read Mary's memory stick before you got rid of it." Sherlock was alert, after noticing how John was furious at him. "I might have pushed her buttons too well, and..."

"You _might_ have? You _might_? A baby died because of this—because of _you_!" John fell on his knees, helpless. "Why did you do this, you fucking lunatic?"

Only now Sherlock showed himself affected by John's words. "You had never insulted me before." He sounded disappointed. "Everybody calls me names—'weirdo', crazy, _freak_... But you never did. Until now."

"My wife is never coming back home because of _you_. My daughter died because of _you_. My life is over because of _you_. If you aren't a lunatic for thinking this is _fine_ , then I don't know what you are." John held back his tears, trying to stand up again. So much madness... He didn't know what to do, how to react.

"I'm a high-functioning sociopath." Sherlock answered as if it was obvious. "As for _why_ I did it... This is how it should be. Your place is here, at Baker Street. By my side. All this time you kept quiet your true feelings for me, and it was driving me _mad_. I had to do something." He said matter-of-factly.

"You..." John got to his feet. "Stay away from me. I don't know you anymore; I don't _want_ to know you anymore."

And then John ran.

Sherlock didn't even worry—he had assured himself the front door was locked, therefore there was no way John could escape from him.

But John hadn't run for the door.

Sherlock turned around, and saw the man standing at the windowsill.

"John, don't do this to me." He pleaded, moving towards his loved one.

"If you give one more step I'll throw myself. You know I will." John sounded determinate.

"What do you want me to do? I'll do anything, I promise you."

"You were always such a good liar. But you've done enough." He sighed. "Please, God, let me _die_."

And John jumped.

 

*  *  *

 

He opened his eyes slowly, trying to get used to the light. His body was lying down on... A hospital bed. He was at the hospital? He turned his head, ignoring the dull ache he was feeling.

"You have broken ribs and a punctured lung, but the doctors said you'll be fine." Sherlock was sitting by his side. "What a shame, don't you think?" He showed John the newspaper he was holding. Under the headline—'body found in the Thames'—, there was a picture of a swollen, blonde corpse.

Mary.

Sherlock didn't wait for John's response. "Did you really think you could get rid of me, John?"

He smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're reading this, I believe you've just finished reading my fanfic... This was my first time writing in English, and it was kinda tricky :v Anyway, this was just for practice, I'm sorry for any grammar mistakes (I bet there's a lot G_G)


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